


Jeeves Makes A Move

by veronamay



Category: Jeeves & Wooster
Genre: Christmas, Jeeves POV, M/M, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-12-22
Updated: 2005-12-22
Packaged: 2017-11-27 05:36:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/658542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veronamay/pseuds/veronamay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Schmoop.  Christmas schmoop, even.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jeeves Makes A Move

**Author's Note:**

> Christmas present fic for [](http://vensre.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://vensre.livejournal.com/)**vensre**. She asked for a Due South/Jeeves  & Wooster crossover, but I couldn't make it work. I hope this suffices anyway, m'dear.
> 
> Thanks to [](http://innocentsmith.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://innocentsmith.livejournal.com/)**innocentsmith** for beta-reading above and beyond the call of duty.

I confess myself to have been at something of a loss on becoming more acquainted with Mr Wooster. I had on our first meeting consigned him to the ranks of useless gentlemen with too much money and too little responsibility who litter the upper classes since the war. Fortunately, or perhaps, unfortunately, over time I had the opportunity to rectify my assumption, until now he filled every crevice and hollow of my heart. I had been enamoured of others before of course, but those had been fiery encounters, almost combative in their fury and quick to fade. This was entirely different, a slow, quiet love that I found myself helpless to resist.

I distinctly recall the moment in which, against all sense and logic, I allowed myself to fully embrace the idea of Mr Wooster as a lover. It was late one Christmas Eve, some years after I entered his employment. Mr Wooster had hosted a dinner party for several of his friends. It was a most convivial gathering and ran quite late, the last of their number departing only a short while since. I saw to the necessary tidying-up in the kitchen and then expressed my intention to retire, if Mr Wooster had no further need of me.

"Off to bed, eh Jeeves?" he said. "Good idea. I ought to dive into the dreamless myself. I have to make the bi-annual rounds of the aunts tomorrow." He affected a shudder of horror with which I sympathised. Having a similar duty of my own to undertake, I could understand his abhorrence. There was in his bearing, however, that which made me hesitate on the threshold of the room.

"If there is anything else you require, sir, you need only ask."

Mr Wooster was sitting, pyjama-clad, on the living room floor facing the hearth. I had lit a fire after serving the dessert course, and it was now crackling most satisfactorily in the grate. Mr Wooster seemed enraptured by it, staring into the flames with an expression akin to wistfulness on his face. That was the moment to which I refer above. Though it lacked any internal fireworks or symphonic fanfare, I was fully cognisant of the event and all it portended, if not the concatenation of circumstances which had brought me to the point. I took a step forward despite myself.

"Sir?"

Mr Wooster had drawn up his knees and was resting his chin on them, his arms wrapped about his shins. He slanted a sideways look at me and smiled awkwardly.

"I don't need anything else, Jeeves. You have performed prodigies of cookery and table-waiting tonight. I don't wish to keep you from your eight hours. But--" he swallowed "--but if you're not too awfully fagged, would you care to join me for a last glass of Christmas cheer?"

He held up his empty snifter in invitation. Before I was aware of having moved, I crossed the floor and accepted the glass in wordless acquiescence, unable in that moment to deny him anything. Mr Wooster brightened perceptibly as I turned to the sideboard.

"I've been sitting here ruminating on my lack of festive spirit, Jeeves," he said. "I can remember being absolutely wild for Christmas as a lad, brim-full of enthusiasm for the whole affair. All the tree-lighting business, and caroling, and sleigh rides with my sister when we'd spill our cocoa on the horse's withers by accident and startle the poor thing into a gallop. This year I seem to have lost the trick of it." He heaved a sigh. "Did you look forward to Christmas in your younger days, Jeeves?"

I passed him a brandy-and-soda and cradled a tot of whisky for myself, contemplating my reply.

"I was never an exuberant child, sir, as you may have guessed, but I did feel some stirring of excitement during the Yuletide season. It is a pleasant time, especially if one has siblings to share the enjoyment, as you know. I was as susceptible as anyone to its charms."

"I can't imagine you as a wide-eyed youngster, Jeeves. Agog with wonder, and so forth. It doesn't seem to fit you."

"No, sir," I agreed. "I have always been possessed of a calm disposition."

"Too dashed calm, on occasion, Jeeves," Mr Wooster said, momentarily aggrieved. "There are times when I could do with a bit more animation on your part, you know." He waved at the armchair beside him, his usual seat. "Sit down, Jeeves. No need to stand at attention, you're not on duty now. Besides, looking up at you makes my neck hurt."

I swallowed back the words that rose to my tongue. An offer to massage the area might reduce the ache in Mr Wooster's neck, but it would do me no good at all.

"Thank you, sir," I murmured instead, and circled around to take the seat from the other side. I was glad to be resting my feet but wary of Mr Wooster's proximity. During the performance of my duties I was prepared for such moments of closeness, but I was not currently acting in a professional capacity. I was very aware of him, the soft cotton of his pyjamas covering shoulders that lay only inches from my hand. I clenched the traitorous appendage into a fist, above his head where he could not see.

Mr Wooster leaned back against the chair, unsettling me further. He himself seemed easy enough in his position to relax his weight somewhat and let out a long breath. With it seemed to go some of his heavy spirits.

"This is jolly nice, Jeeves," he said, gazing at the fire once more. "It's been a topping evening, having Biffy and Mabel, Tuppy and Angela round. And Bingo and Mrs Bingo, of course. Just the sort of thing I like these days. I have sown my wild oats and am content to leave the stealing of policemen's helmets and other such wheezes to younger and fresher chaps. This is what I yearn for now, Jeeves: a peaceful glass of the fluid amber and some friendly kidding about before bed-time."

"It is a soothing pastime, sir," I replied, feeling appreciably soothed in neither soul nor body. "I reached the same conclusion when I was about your age, as do many sensible gentlemen."

"'About my age', Jeeves? You sound like an elderly uncle – a less deadly species than the aunt, as the fellow said, but not made of sunshine and daisies either." He turned his head to look up at me, his hair brushing against my leg. "Just how many winters have you spent on God's green e., Jeeves? Not all that many, surely."

"Forty-four, sir," I said, choosing not to remark on the unusual question. "There is a significant difference in our ages, though as you say not quite enough for me to be considered properly avuncular."

The wistful look returned to Mr Wooster's face as he digested my reply. He murmured, "Oh. I thought--" and then fell silent, turning back to the fire. I wondered what he was thinking.

To all intents and purposes he was now resting his head against my knee, and seemed content to remain there. I was torn between delight and fear, looking at his profile limned in firelight, and over all I was battling the urge to reach down and touch his hair. He resembled nothing in that moment so much as the child he must once have been, and I wished to comfort the ghost of that child, bereft of his parents at a cruelly young age. Mr Wooster never spoke of it, of course, but I knew the holiday season must weigh on him, particularly if he was given to remembrance of Christmases past.

"May I ask you a question of a personal nature, Jeeves?" he asked after a while.

I looked at him somewhat askance, but he was inspecting the contents of his snifter and did not meet my gaze. I could hear the nervousness in his voice.

"You may ask, sir," I said slowly, "but I cannot promise to answer."

"That's fair enough play, I suppose," Mr Wooster said. "It's not a rum question anyway, or at least I hope not. I was only wondering, Jeeves: why aren't you married?"

This was a question I had been asked before. I relaxed somewhat at hearing it now, glad to give an honest answer.

"It is no great mystery, sir. While I enjoy the company of a great many females in society, I do not wish to pursue any deeper connection. It is not unlike your own preference, sir, if I may make the comparison."

"Another one of Nature's bachelors, eh?" Mr Wooster smiled into his brandy. "Well, some poor woman's missing out on a one-in-a-million husband, Jeeves."

"Thank you, sir. I prefer to think that I am preventing the lifelong unhappiness of at least two people by remaining unmarried, but I appreciate the compliment." I raised my glass to him and drank, the whisky warming my throat and stomach, without touching the coldness and longing I felt elsewhere.

"What time is it, Jeeves? I can't see the clock from here."

"Five of twelve, sir."

"Time for bed," Mr Wooster said reluctantly. "I have to be up at some frightfully early hour in order to visit all the aunts. No wonder I'm feeling chilly about Christmas this year! You won't forget to wake me, will you, Jeeves? Of course not, you never do."

He sounded more hopeful than not at the idea. I could not control the quirk of my mouth, sparking a smile of his own in response.

"No, sir. I shall wake you at eight precisely. Your car will be waiting outside at nine."

"Always so bally efficient, Jeeves." Mr Wooster looked up again, his shoulder pressing into my leg. "How did I manage without you? I can't remember. I'll wager I was an absolute chump."

I attempted to answer in the negative – certainly a falsehood this time – but the sight of him gazing at me caused the words to catch in my throat. I could only look at him and shake my head, more at my own folly than in reply. I knew what was happening but I found I could not stop myself. In truth, I did not want to stop.

I watched as if detached as my right hand floated down to stroke the slight roughness of his cheek, the jut of his jawline, the brown-gold locks of his hair.

Mr Wooster stiffened at the contact. His eyes widened, bluer than I had ever seen them, their pupils dilating rapidly. I gazed at him, concentrating on the feel of silken strands between my fingers. I could feel his body-heat seeping through my trousers, warming me more than the fire.

The clock on the mantelpiece struck midnight as he turned his cheek into my palm.

I took a shuddering breath and smiled, the first full smile I had allowed myself in over a year.

"Merry Christmas, sir," I said.


End file.
